days, giving all of herself so feverishly and expecting in return that perfect security which love, in all its destructive history, had never yielded to anyone! And even now, after all these years, after what liaisons in his life and hers, she had not changed, she still loved him.
“You know, dear,” he said to Berenice, “I feel really sorry for Aileen. There she is, in that big house in New York, without any connections that are worth while, sought after by a lot of bounders who do nothing but persuade her to drink and carouse and then try to get money from her to pay the bills. I know that from the servants, who are still loyal to me.”
“It certainly is pathetic,” commented Berenice, “but understandable, too.”
“I don’t want to be hard on her,” continued Cowperwood. “As a matter of fact, I take all the blame. What I’d like to do would be to find some attractive fellow in New York society, or on the edge of it, who, for a given sum of money, would undertake the job of socially managing and entertaining her. I don’t mean that too literally, of course.” And here he smiled ruefully at Berenice.
But she pretended to take no notice of it, unless a blank and brief stare, coupled with faint twitchings at the corners of her mouth, could be construed to convey the sense of satisfaction with which she received the news that he was so much in accord with her own idea.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, cautiously. “Maybe there are such people.”
“There must be scores of them,” said Cowperwood, practically. “Of course, he’d have to be an American. Aileen doesn’t like foreigners, male foreigners, I mean. But one thing is sure, this problem should be settled soon if we’re going to have any peace and be able to move about freely.”
“I think I know of a man who might do,” interjected Berenice, thoughtfully. “His name is Bruce Tollifer. Of the Virginia and South Carolina Tollifers. Perhaps you know him.”
“No. Is he anything like the type I have in mind?”
“Well, he’s young, and very good-looking, if that’s what you mean,” went on Berenice. “I don’t know him personally. The only time I ever saw him was at the Dania Moores, in New Jersey, at the tennis matches. Edgar Boncille was telling me that day what a sponger the fellow was, and how he made his living out of rich women, Mrs. Dania Moore, for one.” Here she laughed, and added: “I think Edgar was a little afraid I might become interested in him, and I did like his looks.” She smiled elusively, as though she knew scarcely anything about this person.
“Sounds interesting,” said Cowperwood. “No doubt, he’s pretty well known around New York.”
“Yes. I remember Edgar said he played around Wall Street. Wasn’t really in it; just pretense for the sake of impressing people.”
“Indeed!” said Cowperwood, looking quite pleased. “Well, I dare say I’d have no trouble locating him, although there are plenty of his type. I’ve met quite a few in my time.”
“It’s a little shameful, I feel,” mused Berenice. “I wish we needn’t talk of it. And I think you should make sure that Aileen doesn’t get into any trouble through anyone you decide to use in this way.”
“I mean only the best for her in every sense, Bevy. You must know that. I simply would like to find someone who could do some of the things for her that neither she nor I, singly or together, could achieve.” And here he paused and gazed speculatively at Berenice, and she a little darkly and ruefully at him. “I want someone who can be of service to her in the way of entertainment, and I am willing to pay for it, and pay well.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Berenice, and then, as if wishing to change an unpleasant subject: “I’m expecting Mother around one o’clock tomorrow. I have arranged for rooms at the Brandingham. But now I want to ask you about Rolfe.”
“What about him?”
“Oh, he’s so impractical. He’s never had any training. I wish I could find something for him to do.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll have one of my men here take care of him. He can come out here as secretary to one of them. I’ll have Kitteredge write him.”
Berenice looked at him, not a little affected by the ease with which he solved everything, and by his generosity to her.
“I want you to know that I’m not ungrateful, Frank. You’re so good to me.”
Chapter 8
At the very time Berenice was speaking of him, Bruce Tollifer, the handsome ne’er-do-well was resting his considerably abused body, as well as his varied and colorful mind, in one of the lesser bedrooms of Mrs. Selma Hall’s rooming house on East Fifty-third Street, a once semi-fashionable but now rather d'eclass'e New York “brownstone front” neighborhood. In his mouth was a sickly taste, the aftermath of late hours the night before; but at his elbow, just the same on a rather time-eaten taboret, were a bottle of whiskey, a siphon of seltzer, and cigarettes. And lying at his side, in the folding wall-bed, was a decidedly attractive young actress, whose salary, room, and other possessions he shared.
Both were half-dozing at a little before eleven in the morning. But a few moments later Rosalie Harrigan opened her eyes, and surveying the none too attractive room, with its wallpaper once cream-colored but now a faded brown, its low, triple-mirrored dressing table, and chest of drawers, decided that she must get up and remove the unsightly array of clothing strewn around the room. There was also an improvised kitchen and bathroom, and just to the right of the taboret was a writing table upon which Rosalie served such meals as were eaten in the apartment.
Even en d'eshabill'e, Rosalie was an enticing creature. Curly, tousled black hair, a small white face, with small, searching black eyes, red lips, a slightly turned-up nose, a figure gracefully and sensually rounded, all combined to hold, for a time, anyhow, the rakish, restless, handsome Tollifer. She was also thinking that she would mix a drink for Tollifer and hand him a cigarette. Then, if he were interested, she would make some coffee and boil a couple of eggs. Or if he chose not to stir or pay any attention to her, she would dress and leave for rehearsal, which was called for twelve o’clock, and then return to his side to await his eventual wakefulness. For Rosalie was in love.
Essentially a squire of dames, Tollifer was never more than lukewarm in return for all such favors. For why should he be? A Tollifer, of the Virginia and South Carolina Tollifers! He was entitled to go with the best people anywhere! The one trouble was that except for Rosalie or any girl of her type, he was usually without a dime, and worse, drunk and in debt. Nevertheless and notwithstanding, he was a magnet where women were concerned. However, after some twenty-odd years of trifling, he had failed to make an important social connection with any of them, and so was now inclined to be brief, sarcastic, and dictatorial with anyone he might choose to favor.
Tollifer was of a good southern family, one that had once been wealthy and socially prominent. In Charleston, at that very time, was still standing an old and charming residence in which was housed what was left of a branch of the family that had endured since before the Civil War. In their possession were thousands of dollars’ worth of Confederate bonds made worthless by the outcome of that conflict. And in the Army at this time was a brother, Captain Wexford Tollifer, no less, who considered Bruce a waster and a social loafer.
And in San Antonio, Texas, was another brother, a successful rancher, who had gone west, married, had children, and settled down, and now looked on Bruce’s ambitions in connection with New York society as the limit of folly. For if he were ever going to do anything—bag an heiress, for instance—why hadn’t he done so years before? True, his name
